Cops and Robbers
by Sherlock Prefect
Summary: The famous detective Sherlock Holmes and the infamous thief A.J. Raffles are forced by rather inescapable odds into a gruff alliance. The question is, how long will it last before they destroy each other?
1. The Perfect Trap

Author's note: Okay, longer explanation: Most of you are probably not familiar with A.J. Raffles so I will give you a brief explanation. Doyle had a sister, right? And there was this other author, dude name E.W. Hornung, and he liked to write too, and before he met Doyle he had this cricket player character he tinkered with, and then he married Doyle's sister, and him and Doyle became great friends. Doyle encouraged Hornung to write, and so Hornung wrote an published many stories about a character named A.J. Raffles. Once the cricket player, this character, as sort of an homage and sort of a joke, was almost the inverse of Sherlock Holmes, and his friend and partner "Bunny" Howard Manders was Watson's counterpart. Many people have theorized a connection between Raffles and Holmes (after all, the 2 authors were brother in laws, so plenty of future authors jumped at the opportunity to make _Raffles and Holmes_ brother in laws).

My theory however, is less of a "what if" theory, and more a "Wouldn't it be hilarious if…" theory. So this fic is almost pure comedy, with maybe some light romance thrown in. And it definitely has a Shakespearean comedy feel to it.

Any prolonged italics are direct quotes from _Raffles: A Thief in the Night_ by E.W. Hornung. And while not true with Raffles, I own nothing that belongs to anyone else.

So, enjoy this first (and somewhat bland, but it'll get better) chapter!

It was a fine moonlit night when A.J Raffles, along with his dear friend Bunny Manders, decided to rob the home of one Lord Lochmaben. Having been familiar with the previous owners of the lovely estate in Palace Gardens due to his tragically cancelled engagement with their daughter, Bunny had precious knowledge of the whereabouts of a certain hidden safe, which he refused to share with Raffles unless he accompanied him in the robbery. Reluctantly, Raffles had agreed, seeing no harm in allowing Bunny to come along in this child's play of a job.

And it had been child's play, until…

_"The son of the house!" whispered Raffles. _

The knocking that had shocked them into action was only preceded by a rather awkward scene, where Bunny learned the truth of the robbery.

The previous owners of the estate were not previous owners at all (as Raffles had insisted upon to Bunny), and the young woman who Bunny had been engaged to was standing before them. It would be hard to say who felt more shock, Bunny or the young woman (whose name shall remain anonymous at his wish), but it would be easy to say that they both felt very much betrayed. Raffles was sorry for that.

But right now he was more concerned with escaping.

He fled to the window, attempting to drag a stunned Bunny behind him, feeling completely confident of their safety, but…

_As he leaped out first a sharp cry stopped Bunny at the sill._

_ "Get back! Get back! We're trapped!"_

Officers had surrounded the estate.

Holmes awoke with a start, feeling, for some odd reason, that he was in grave danger. He scanned his room, confusion mounting with every danger he _didn't _see. Then the confusion morphed into irritation.

One of those blasted _feelings _again. The eternal nuisance he'd had ever since he was born, often waking him up in the middle of the night or interrupting his precious thoughts. Cursing silently, he turned over and went back to sleep.

……………………………

"Mycroft, I have no idea what to do. It's beyond a mere _annoyance_ now; it's interrupting my work!" Holmes exclaimed sharply, pacing the room as if it were a prison cell.

"Calm down, Sherlock. The Stranger's Room isn't soundproof," Mycroft replied in a much lighter tone, watching his brother with amusement in his eyes. Holmes did not take this very well. He stopped, turned towards Mycroft brusquely, and closed the distance between them (he'd gotten rather far in his pacing, despite the small area of the room).

"Mycroft, you of all people should understand that these…" he searched for a word and gave up after three seconds. "…whatever they are, are _not_ a frivolous matter! There is _something _happening that neither of us could understand since we were children!" he stated, quieter this time, but just as harsh.

"This bothers you a lot," It was a statement, of course. One did not have to be as perceptive as Mycroft to know that Holmes was not in the best of moods. With Holmes remaining sullenly silent, Mycroft continued, "I do understand that these feelings of yours are not the product of an idle mind, but unlike you, I have accepted that I will probably never know what they _are. _Admit it, Sherlock, this small matter is consuming you because it is the one mystery you are unable to solve, for lack of any tangible evidence."

Everything Mycroft said had been correct. Holmes hated when that happened.

"Well, unlike you, Mycroft, I cannot simply dismiss the matter, because I am not the witness, but the victim," he returned with a tone of finality.

"Well, did you come here expecting that _I _would know the answer?" Mycroft asked in his innocent manner of interrogation.

"I suppose not," Holmes replied, sighing.

"If you want advice, I say you should listen to your friend Dr. Watson and take some time to rest," Mycroft said, letting it be known that he had nothing more to say about the matter.

The idea disgusted Holmes, but he made an effort to pretend to agree and left the Diogenes Club.

That same afternoon, later on, Holmes, lounged on his chair in the sitting room, looked up from the paper to Watson, who was seated on the couch reading some silly work of fiction.

"Tell me, Watson, have you heard of 'The Amateur Cracksman'?" he asked, with a tone that clearly suggested _I'm going to tell you anyway._

Deciding to give Holmes the satisfaction, Watson replied negatively.

"Why, he's a notorious thief who's been raiding London's high society for months now!" Holmes said, making it sound like no small feat.

"Really?" Watson asked, playing along despite the fact that one would have to be a hermit to know nothing of this scoundrel.

"Yes, indeed. I have been studying this rogue since the very beginning (he has a very definitive modus operandi, you know), and very recently Scotland Yard has requested my assistance in his capture," Holmes said absently, once again absorbed in the paper.

"Ah, so they have a plan, then?" Watson asked, a little surprised. Holmes smirked without looking up.

"Of course not, but I wouldn't have it any other way. It is imperative that I set the trap myself, and it shall all be said and done by tomorrow morning," Holmes explained with a tone of finality suggesting that nothing in the universe could stop him from seeing this case's conclusion.

"So soon?" Watson asked. Surely Holmes had planned further ahead than this; yet, Watson had a feeling that this time something was rushing Holmes. He usually spoke of his concluding cases with a barely contained eagerness, yet now his tone was slightly different… it was almost like anxious anticipation.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am only now waiting on a few of my Irregulars. I expect they will report back by around 10 o'clock this evening," Holmes replied, finally laying the paper down.

There was a moment of silence, and Watson began counting the seconds Holmes would let pass before revealing everything.

12, 13, 14, 15…

"You see, Watson, a few nights ago there was an attempted robbery up at the Palace Gardens," Holmes began.

"Ah yes, I believe I heard about that. If I remember correctly, the scoundrel was able to escape," Watson replied.

"Not one, my dear Watson. Despite whatever Scotland Yard believes, there were _two _present at that robbery," Holmes corrected him, with a familiar predatory glint in his eyes.

"_Two?_" Watson repeated, honestly dumbfounded. "I thought the thief jumped out of the window, subdued one officer, and fled from the rest! There was no report of another thief!"  
"Such is the incompetence of Scotland Yard," Holmes said derisively. "Once they saw the one thief flee, they all assumed he was the only one, so they never _looked_ for the evidence proving that there w_as _more than one; there were _two _sets of footprints, nearly imperceptible, but still present, on the grass outside the estate."

Watson took a moment to absorb this, then asked, "What does this have to do with the thief you're after? From what you've told me, it appears that the Amateur Cracksman works alone."

"Yes, he does, and I would not have connected this robbery to him had I not seen his handiwork on the safe. That is where he gives himself away; he has a very original method of safecracking. As to the second thief, he was not a thief at all, merely an accomplice whose sole purpose was to reveal the location of the safe. Now, this would automatically place him as a friend of the family, but after interviewing the young lady who had been a witness to the crime, I had turned up no suspects. However, I had the distinct feeling she was hiding something, and when I prevailed upon the head of the house, I discovered what it was; the young lady had been engaged to a young man by the name of Howard Manders, and very recently, the gentlemen cancelled the engagement due to his sudden financial misfortune. He was quite the gambler, you see, and had lost nearly all of his assets during a trip to Monte Carlo.

"So, it would appear that the Cracksman, being friendly with this Manders fellow, perhaps enough to share his precious secret, had convinced Manders to reveal the location of the safe to him. In any case, that's all in the past. As I said before, once the Irregulars return with the intelligence I requested, the trap for The Amateur Cracksman will be set," Holmes concluded dramatically.

Watson started to reply to this when a young newsboy burst through the door with a furious Mrs. Hudson at his heels. Immediately Holmes turned to him and spoke hurriedly, "What? What is it? Has something gone wrong?"

The newsboy panted for breath for a few seconds, then managed to utter, "No sir, but we was following the bloke, and his cab turned onto Baker Street, so I ran ahead to warn you. Thought you might want to take a look."

Hearing this Holmes rushed to the window, Watson and the newsboy following, and the newsboy pointed out a cab with a very large chest loaded on it and a rather small, pale-haired gentleman riding in the front.

"That's the one, sir!" he affirmed.

Holmes watched the cab as it slowly drove by, and was suddenly overcome by an odd urgency. He didn't quite understand it, but something about that chest was amiss. Within seconds he ascertained that it couldn't possibly be anything physical about it; everything about its appearance was normal.

Then what in the world could possibly trouble him?

"Are you all right, sir?" The young newsboy asked, eyeing Holmes in confusion. Holmes inwardly shook his head.

"I'm fine. Now you get back to following Manders and report back to me when you have enough information," he said. The newsboy nodded and sprinted out the room eagerly.

"What _was _the matter with you, Holmes?" Watson asked once he'd gone.

"It was nothing," Holmes replied, a little irritably. He sighed and sank back into the chair he'd formerly been occupying. Watson, knowing it was futile to pursue the matter any further, shrugged and went back to his reading.

A few hours later, the two Irregulars returned, both chattering excitedly over what they had learned. Once Holmes managed to calm them down, they took turns relaying what they'd overheard.

Since they'd been following Manders this morning, the events of the day had been very strange. They first followed him to a flat where he received that very large chest and loaded it onto a cab. He then went to a bank and deposited it for safekeeping, saying he was going on a holiday. From there he went to a Turkish Bath, and when he came out he was very rushed, and immediately hailed a cab and rode back to the bank. The Irregulars learned that the bank had been robbed that afternoon, and Manders was worried about the chest. It had not been disturbed, but nevertheless Manders took it to his flat with him (this was when they had spotted him from the window). The Irregulars were hiding outside listening through the door, and suddenly they heard a voice that was not Manders'.

"A man was hiding in the chest the whole time!" said the young newsboy that they'd talked to before. Watson noticed an odd look on Holmes's face as he heard this.

They then learned in utter amazement that the man in the chest was none other than the Cracksman himself! Unknown to Manders, who'd been told to watch the chest while the Cracksman went to Scotland to hide out, the Cracksman had actually hidden in the chest, and when it was taken to the bank, he clambered out and added some of the valuables in the vault to his collection, knowing that once Manders had heard of the robbery he would immediately fetch the chest and bring it to the flat.

"How ingenious!" Holmes muttered in open appreciation. "This Cracksman certainly is a clever fellow; even knows enough to keep the heist a secret from his friend; if Manders had known, he surely would have given our scoundrel away."

"Indeed!" agreed Watson.

"It gets better than that, sir!" the other Irregular, a slightly older looking ruffian, replied.

"We know where he's going to go next!" the newsboy said in obvious pride.

"Brilliant!" Holmes exclaimed.

"We heard him and Manders talking, and the Cracksman was talking about a house up on Seymour St., and how he'd heard from a good source that the occupants weren't going to be in tonight. He's bound to go there!"

"Excellent! Do you know when the occupants plan on leaving?" Holmes asked.

"I'm not sure, but I think he said they were going to the theatre, so if you leave now you would probably be able to catch them," the ruffian said.

"Did you catch the man's name, by any chance?" Holmes asked hopefully, already retrieving his coat.

"Oh yes, we did!" the newsboy said as if he'd just remembered. Holmes and Watson looked at him expectantly.

"His name is Raffles."

Minutes later, Holmes and Watson were heading to Seymour Street, Watson in a bit of a daze. He knew he'd heard that name before…

"No, it couldn't be _that _Raffles," he suddenly said aloud.

"Hm?" Holmes looked at him in confusion. Then he snapped to attention and said, "You mean you _know _this fellow?"

"Know _of_ him," Watson replied. "But it couldn't be the same Raffles…"

"Raffles isn't exactly a commonly heard name on the streets of London," Holmes reminded him.

"Well… there's a fellow named A.J. Raffles who plays first class cricket for Middlesex. He's practically a star; I've never heard of a better player. But do you really think _he_ could be the Cracksman?" Watson asked incredulously. Holmes shrugged.

"It had to be someone; why not a famous cricket player?" he asked. "Ah- this is the house here. I'm afraid I'll have to go alone from here on, but I appreciate your company."

"Think nothing of it," Watson replied. "Good luck, Holmes!" he said, and went on his way.

After a somewhat lengthy explanation to the head of the house, he agreed to let Holmes stay inside and keep watch while they were at the theatre. Holmes surveyed the house to get a feel for it, then seated himself in the parlor, where, he was reluctantly told, the safe was located.

Holmes wasn't quite sure how much time had passed, when suddenly his sense were called to attention. He had heard nothing, nor seen a figure move in the darkness, but he knew that Raffles was here. He crouched down silently to a place where he would not be seen, when a tall, lean figure shadowed the parlor entrance. The head swiveled, then the figure suddenly froze.

_He knows I'm here? How? He can't possibly see me!_ Holmes thought in frustration. Ah well, it was too late for him now.

"How are you going to find the safe this time, Mr. Raffles?" Holmes asked smugly, standing up. The figure, for some odd reason, relaxed, and leaned against the doorframe.

"Are you armed, by any chance?" he asked in a light tenor, which was staggeringly alike to Holmes's own voice. "I mean, I know you aren't with others; if you were, why would you be here when you could be outside surrounding the house?" he mused, almost to himself. "But I do like to know what I'm up against. An armed man is very dangerous, especially if he's the nervous sort."

"Don't worry, I'm not going to shoot you," Holmes said icily. Raffles' nonchalance was quite irritating, even with the few words he'd said.

"Ah. So you want to take me in? I'm afraid I can't have that," Raffles replied, almost apologetically. "After all, the only reason I came here was to have a few words with you."

Raffles took Holmes's prolonged silence as confusion.

"You see, I'm a very cautious man, so I'd been watching the house some time before you and your friend arrived. It intrigued me that you had somehow learned of my plans, so I decided to go and see for myself what sort of man you were."

"Quite an odd thing to do for such a 'cautious man', if you don't mind my saying" Holmes said dryly. Raffles laughed heartily.

"Well there _was_ more to it than that," Raffles replied. He then paused, and for the first time he seemed less than 100 confident. "I just had a feeling that it would be safe. I don't quite know why," he said. Then he shrugged it off and his voice regained its former assuredness. "But my instincts haven't failed me before!"

Holmes's silence was now longer. Raffles was a little worried at first, but continued anyways, trying to prolong the conversation that would most likely become a fight if he wasn't careful.

"Anyways, I know you can't be with the Yard; there's barely an officer there who can remember where Hyde Park is. But you're not just any old criminologist, I know that. I've had some experience with them, you know. But, from your obvious intelligence and from the sight of your friend, I would say you are that detective everyone's talking about these days. Shylock Holmes, is it?" he asked innocently.

"Sherlock," Holmes snapped in reply with all the venom of a cobra. He was quite sure that Raffles' little mistake was intentional, and was not appreciative of the reference.

"Ah, of course. Well, you already know my name, so I might as well not keep it a secret. My name is A.J. Raffles; you may have heard of me," he commented with a slight arrogance in his tone.

"As a matter of fact, I hadn't, until my friend Dr. Watson informed me. All the same, Mr. Raffles, I think we've talked enough," Holmes replied darkly.

Raffles sighed softly.

"You law enforcers are all so unforgiving. But I suppose it must be. I have one request, though- before you attempt to apprehend me," he began, highly emphasizing the word 'attempt', "Let me get one good look at you. I can't see a thing from here."

Holmes thought for a moment, then sighed and decided to indulge Raffles. He slowly moved out of the darkness, preparing himself for attack at any moment.

Raffles, still lounged against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watched with growing interest as a figure moved out from the darkness. As the light revealed more and more of this Holmes fellow, his mild interest soon rocketed to a paralyzing shock.

Holmes, just as frozen as Raffles, gaped (for probably the first time in his life) for a few moments at Raffles. Raffles, however, was the first one to move. He rushed to the nearest light and turned it on, and in the sudden light that flooded into the room, they resumed their staring, and finally risked taking small steps towards each other. And finally, Raffles stopped, and said in a voice that was now a little shaky, "Um… does this, by any chance, change anything?"

Holmes stared back at the man who might as well have been his reflection and replied, "I think maybe it does."


	2. The Perfect Coincidence

Author's Note: Well, FINALLY, I have finished chapter 2! It is rather hefty though, and much happens, so there's at least some pathetic excuse for the remarkable amount of time it took me to write it. But, you can thank my new Raffles prt. 2 DVDs (!!!) for inspiring me to unthinkable degrees. I highly recommend it.Now for some business:

The following is a list of all the characters from Raffles that I will be using/mentioning, and their counterparts if they have one, for those who have not read the stories:  
_Lady Camilla Belzise_- A women's rights advocate from the novel "Mr. Justice Raffles" who helps Raffles to bring down a nefarious moneylender who gives crime a bad name. She is about as close to Irene Adler as you get without making her an actress.

_Inspector Mackenzie-_ The Scottish Inspector bent on proving to Scotland Yard that Raffles is the Cracksman. And yes, he is pretty much Lestrade's counterpart.

_Beckett- _The doorman at Raffle's flat building. Kind of like a male Mrs. Hudson.

_Netja- _I may or may not include her. She is from the story A Bad Night. She's a Dutch woman who's a good shot with a revolver, a cricket obsession, and sporadic insomnia. Her character was far more illuminated in the DVDs, which is the reason I'm itching to include her.

…

Raffles was more than a little unsettled by now. What had started as a relaxing little robbery had turned into a poorly thought out confrontation and had now drastically become a tense (and _very _awkward) stalemate. Holmes and him were both seated on the couch, confused into a dead silence even though both had the distinct feeling they weren't going to get anywhere that way. Still, neither could straighten their thoughts out enough to put one together and form it into a cohesive spoken statement. Raffles hoped Holmes would say something soon, because right now he was stuck in a never-ending cycle: try to think, do something out of distraction like run a hand through his hair, then look over and see Holmes doing the exact same thing with him, and be stunned for another ten seconds.

And then, at length, Holmes _did _speak.

"Were you, by any chance… in some sort of danger, about a week ago?" he asked, warily.

With a sinking feeling, Raffles replied, "I believe that would be the time I escaped capture in Palace Gardens."

"Ah."

"And you knew it."  
"Yes."  
"Right, then… about a month ago, were you…?"  
"I was fighting a deadly snake."  
"I see."

There was a pause. Then Raffles stood and started pacing with a distressed look on his face.

"_What_ is the matter?" Holmes asked, somewhat disturbed at his reflection's fidgety behavior

"Is it really so hard to divine?" he replied, raising an eyebrow. He stopped abruptly, crossed his arms, and stared at the ground. He had the answer to this very odd dilemma screeching at him from the back of his mind, but his own reluctance to believe as well as the cloud of confusion in his mind were preventing him from reaching it. Finally, he said, quite subconsciously, "You were raised with no father, is this correct?"

"I can't quite see what that has to do-"

"Were you?" Raffles asked more urgently. That brilliant thought was coming to the surface.

"Yes…"

Like a bomb, the answer exploded in Raffles's mind.

"Oh, no…" he said in disbelief. He suddenly looked very downtrodden and began to back away from Holmes in what almost seemed like fear (not that this would be a highly unnatural action for a man such as Raffles).

"For God's sake, will you just tell me what's happening, since _you _seem to have all the answers?" Holmes asked sharply, losing patience he never had in the first place.

"There's, um…" Raffles cleared his throat. "Something you should see."

"_What?_" Poor Holmes, he hated it terribly when he was kept in the dark.

"I can't tell you yet," Raffles replied a little cautiously.

"And why not?" Holmes was almost seething now. Raffles was already afraid of him.

"In the case that I happen to be wrong in my hypothesis, it would be quite imprudent for me to divulge anything at this moment," Raffles said with a very practiced blank expression, delivering the statement as if reciting it from a textbook.

Holmes might, and most likely would have, debated this point, but it was at this unfortunate moment that the homeowners chose to arrive. In shock, they both stood there for a second, and in the very confusing seconds that passed, it somehow followed that _Holmes _was hidden from sight while _Raffles _was still out in the open. So it was that when the esteemed lord and lady of the house lighted upon the sitting room, they immediately saw Raffles, looking as frightened as a rabbit, and no one else.

Raffles might have voiced some _very _logical reason why he was currently in their parlor, but the man spoke first.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, did that scoundrel ever turn up?" he raised an eyebrow challengingly, quite clearly announcing that he held little stock in Holmes's opinion.

Raffles first reaction to this statement was: _Mr. Holmes?_

His second reaction was: _scoundrel?_

His third reaction was a giant burst of inner laughter.

Raffles cleared his throat and said, quite authoritatively, "Why yes, Lord Elliot, he did happen to 'turn up' as you put it so eloquently, and if it weren't for the incompetence of that damned officer I called in to assist me, I would have had him behind bars tonight!"

Raffles thought he played the part of the detective quite nicely, and the convincing anger in his tone quieted the impudent aristocrat in seconds. He even had the decency to look apologetic on behalf of the fabricated officer. Raffles decided to continue the assault to provide an opportunity for himself to leave the house as Sherlock Holmes and Holmes an opportunity to sneak out a window.

"In any event," Raffles said, glaring at Lord Elliot, "your precious belongings are safe for one more night, and you can rest assured that you'll hear no more from me. Now if you do excuse me, it's about time _I_ rested myself," he finished sharply, and with a flourish turned and stalked out of the house quite happily.

He knew that neither of them would dream of entering the parlor to affirm anything that he'd said; it would be humiliating for them. He also knew that they would not be watching him as he left the house, so he took the liberty of turning into an alcove directly next to the house and waited. A few minutes later, when the lights on the second floor of the house were turned on, Holmes landed with a slight grunt next to him.

"Hulloa again!" Raffles said cheerfully, unfazed by the antagonism that seethed from every pore of Holmes.

"I fail to see any shred of humor in this situation, so if you don't mind revealing this precious secret which is so delicate that it could not be unveiled earlier," he practically growled. Raffles cleared his throat and sobered; Holmes was beginning to notice this odd habit of his.

"Well, first order of business… I wonder, though you weren't raised with your father, do you have any idea what he looked like, or at least have in your possession a photograph?" he asked, his eyebrow raised.

"Are you suggesting…" Holmes trailed off, too stunned to even finish the thought.

"Well I _told _you that I really ought to have kept it a secret until it could be proven true," Raffles admonished softly.

"And I suppose you actually thought-" Holmes stopped mid-sentence and started as if a thought struck him. "Wait just a minute…" he said quietly, and then his voice took on a low, dangerous tone, "_Mycroft_ would know."

"Excuse me?"

"My brother," Holmes answered, looking Raffles straight in the eye. Raffles caught on immediately.

"Your _older _brother," he said in what would quite unarguably be called a statement. Holmes nodded in confirmation. Raffles sighed and muttered, "Oh dear."

…

They made the trip to Pall Mall in record time, especially considering the unusual circumstances; it would, after all, be highly irregular if they were seen together by someone that either of them knew. Once directed to the proper flat by a doorman who fought them nearly kicking and screaming, Holmes banged rather loudly on the door several times. Raffles was standing slightly apart from him; he fancied he could see flames coming off of the irate detective. He wasn't quite sure he would be as angry as Holmes was if this situation had been his, but he sagely thought it wise not to question Holmes's course of action.

And then, nearly a minute later, Mycroft opened the door to see two Sherlocks, one of them glaring furiously at him, and the other gaping in fascination.

Needless to say, he was at a slight loss for words. Holmes decided to take the liberty of dragging Raffles along with him inside the flat, slamming the door, turning to Mycroft, and all but shouted at him, "_What, _may I ask, is the meaning of _this?_" he pointed furiously at Raffles, who was still gawking rather uncharacteristically at Mycroft.

Mycroft, never a man to be stunned for very long, very quickly pulled himself together and looked at Holmes with a look of stern protestation.

"Sherlock, if you have the slightest idea that I have any notion of exactly _what _is happening, you are very much mistaken," he told his brother in that matter-of-fact way he had so expertly mastered.

"My God…" Raffles now interjected quietly. Sherlock and Mycroft turned to him in confusion, the anger in them diffused temporarily.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"You look… just like him," Raffles told Mycroft, in a voice of very acute disbelief.

"Just like _whom?_" Mycroft asked sharply, picking up Sherlock's irritation rather quickly.

Raffles looked around at both of them before answering, seemingly worried that what he would say next wouldn't be wise against such oddly hot-tempered fellows.

"Well… my father," he answered, tilting his chin up to accentuate his truthfulness.

No one said anything for a few moments; all of them were silently going over the facts in their minds, and even after they all reached the same conclusion, none of them felt comfortable enough to voice it out loud. Finally, Raffles, feeling he had started this mess, stood and bravely took on the part of the composed logician once more. Absently, Sherlock noted that whenever Raffles was stating something official, or taking on a part which required some authority, he would stand with one leg slightly slanted, and his torso tilted ever so slightly to one side, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other hanging loosely. It almost gave the impression that he was leaning on some invisible cane.

"There is one _very _simple method of verifying what I'm sure is on all of our minds right now," Raffles said in a stately manner.

"What would that be, now?" Sherlock asked him, a little challengingly. Raffles cocked his head to the side slightly.

"I have a photograph of my father, and I would find it hard to believe that one of you is not in possession of a photograph of _your _father," Raffles said, carefully emphasizing the 'your' for as long as possible.

Mycroft wordlessly left the room, and came back moments later with a small photograph, which he gave just as silently to Raffles. Raffles glimpsed at it, and then quite noticeably _pretended_ to look at it longer, and then cleared his throat. Holmes groaned.

"Well, are you going to take my word for it, or do I have to show you the identical photo I have?" he asked, looking at the pair rather apologetically, and definitely a little frightened.

Holmes stood and walked closer to Raffles, and for a while they stared straight at each other, and Mycroft was damned if he didn't imagine a mirror standing between them.

"It's late, this affair has been very confusing to both of us, and as much as I can try to deny it in my mind…" Holmes began, and now looked away and continued very reluctantly in a low grunt, "I can _feel _that you are telling the truth." He was very clear in making the distinction between knowing and feeling.

Raffles all but collapsed on the couch that was most thankfully near him and shut his eyes.

"This is probably _the worst, _most _unfortunate_ chain of events ever to occur in my entire life," Raffles muttered, with almost complete resignation to his fate.

"You have absolutely _no _idea," Holmes grumbled darkly, sitting with equal misery next to him.

Mycroft let a decent interval of silence pass before he decided to shake both of these rather melodramatic young men out of their black moods.

"May I inquire," he began with a raised eyebrow at the man he recognized as _not _Sherlock, "as to your name, sir?"

Raffles looked up, glanced at Holmes, and sighed.

"Well, I suppose you'll have to call me Arthur," he said, with the ghost of a smile on his face.

_Nearly five seconds later…_

"Right then, um… what happens now?" Raffles asked, a little nervously, seeing as how he did seem to be in a rather unfavorable position.

"Well I can't arrest you _now,_" Holmes said, sounding almost disappointed.

"_Ohh_, err… right, of course you can't," Raffles said, clearing his throat, inwardly sighing in relief. As long as he was out of danger, any of Holmes's personal opinions of him were all right by him. "In that case, then, I think I really ought to be arriving back at my flat; you see, my friend is waiting there for me, and is probably very worried…"

"_You_ are not going _anywhere_ for the time being," Holmes told him sharply, crossing his arms and leering at him authoritatively.

"_Why not_?" Raffles asked desperately, looking to the heavens that had so cruelly decided to punish him most unfairly this evening.

"Yes, Sherlock, why not?" Mycroft asked his brother calmly, giving him a look of cautionary interest.

"Mycroft!" Holmes replied, appalled that Mycroft would not agree with his own kin, and seemingly overlooking the fact that ultimately that was exactly who Mycroft _was _agreeing with.

"Yes, Sherlock?" he replied, raising an eyebrow.

"He's…. a _thief!_"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake…" Raffles mumbled under his breath, rolling his eyes; however, neither Sherlock nor Mycroft were paying attention, so he got away with the remark quite nicely.

"Sherlock, you seem to be overlooking the more important factor in this scenario," Mycroft told his younger brother bluntly.

"And that would be…?" Holmes challenged.

"That is nearing two in the morning, and I am in the most desperate need for rest. Therefore, I'm afraid both of you will have to return to your own residences or take your business elsewhere," Mycroft said, clearly exercising his authority as older brother.

Holmes gave Mycroft a look with so much disbelief that it practically spoke to him.

"I would have to say that is the most intelligent idea I've heard this entire, exhausting night," Raffles said cheerily, nonchalantly starting to stroll out the door, his body language clearly showing infinite appreciation towards Mycroft.

"Where are you going?" Holmes asked him fiercely, still very upset at losing what would have been one of the most important captures of his career. Raffles, now at the door, turned around and gave Holmes a weary look.

"Oh, if it will make you feel any more dutiful, you can chase me, but I won't be a very good sport about it," Raffles told him frankly, and without another word, left.

Holmes turned to his older brother and scowled.

"Mycroft, how on earth could you allow that to happen?"

"Sherlock…" Mycroft began, sighing and shaking his head.

"What?"

"Go to bed."

…

_The next day_

"Raffles…" Bunny Manders ventured to his friend. He was sitting across from his rather silent companion in the small sitting room of Raffle's flat at the Albany, and as usual, he was in the dark. His pale hair, fairly long, fair complexion, and short, slender build made him seem almost like a child, especially at moments like this. Between them lay a chessboard which portrayed quite a vicious battle, but Bunny was hardly paying attention to the game; he was far too immersed in other puzzlements. Though, Raffles would admit, he had right to be confused.

Raffles looked up at Bunny blankly for a few moments, then, once he acknowledged in his mind that Bunny had spoken, asked absently, "Yes?"

"You never did tell me what happened last night," Bunny reminded him. He'd been nearly in a panic, thinking Raffles had been caught, or even worse, injured or killed.

"Ah. And you feel you are entitled to an explanation, which you most assuredly are," Raffles added reassuringly, moving one of his pieces and relieving Bunny of one of his.

"Well… yes," Bunny replied, staring forlornly at his lost bishop.

"Bunny, you must trust me when I say that I would absolutely enjoy recounting the events of last night to you," Raffles began. "However, it's only logical that to be able to retell them properly, I must first ascertain that they actually happened."

"So…" Bunny struggled with Raffles's words as he slid a rook forward. This was a usual communication problem between them; it really was a matter of language. While Raffles had a passion for poetic speech, Bunny preferred to speak like ordinary people, because, he reasoned, it was, understandably, ordinary. Raffles sighed in mild irritation at his friend's stupidity.

"What I mean, Bunny," he began through clenched teeth, a usual practice of his when forced to speak plainly. Moving a pawn forward, he continued, "is that the events of last night were so bizarre in their circumstances that I am struggling to comprehend them myself."

"Ah."

"You understand?" Raffles asked, watching Bunny carefully.

"I think so."

"Good."

A brief pause. Bunny used his other bishop to take one of Raffles's pawns.

"But you never actually stole anything last night, or if you have, you haven't told me," Bunny pursued.

"Trust me, Bunny, I most certainly did _not _steal anything last night," Raffles answered, slightly irritated.

"Then, there must be _some_ reason," Bunny pleaded.

"And I'm afraid that I can't tell you what it is," Raffles replied, sounding genuinely apologetic. "However, you needn't have any concerns about our safety."

Bunny nodded, still looking slightly disappointed, and inexpertly returned to reading the paper. After pondering the chessboard for a few minutes in silence, he looked up as if suddenly remembered something and took out a paper. He fumbled inexpertly with the pages, nearly obliterating Raffles's concentration on the game, until finally he abruptly looked up and, with a triumphant look on his face, proclaimed, "I've got it!"

Raffles, disturbed out of his planning, looked across the coffee table at his friend who was smiling so widely it nearly rearranged the structure of his entire face.

"Hm? Got it? Got _what_?" Raffles asked, brow furrowed in confusion. He absently moved his queen.

"Lady Belzaire!" Bunny declared.

The sudden shock and surprise evident in Raffles's face was the most unexpected reaction Bunny had ever seen from his friend.

"I beg your pardon?" Raffles asked, staring with some incredulity and a great deal of confusion at his friend.

"Well, you can't hide _everything_ from me, Raffles," Bunny said, quite proudly. "I knew since the business with that moneylender that had a _great_ deal of affection for her," he continued, putting quite the emphasis on the word.

For a moment Raffles couldn't even begin to think of a suitable reply. Then, he decided to fall back on a classic line of defense, and asked sharply, "And what does that have anything to do with last night?"

"You went to see her!" Bunny answered, smirking.

"I- Bunny, she is a _married woman_!" Raffles answered harshly, completely taken aback at that ridiculous accusation.

"You can't fool me with the one, Raffles; I've read the papers," Bunny replied wryly.

"You…" he froze mid sentence and stared at his friend. "What was that, Bunny?"

"Oh…." Bunny replied, as if he'd just realized he'd made a huge mistake. "Then I suppose you _haven't _heard…"

"Haven't heard _what, _Bunny?"

"Well, um…" Bunny cleared his throat and prepared for the worst. "Lady Belzaire has divorced."

"_What?_" Raffles asked rather loudly. Bunny winced.

Stunned, Raffles leaned back in his chair.

"Oh, and, erm… Raffles?" Bunny began carefully.

"What _else, _Bunny?"

"Um… checkmate."

…

That afternoon, not terribly far away, Dr. John Watson arrived at an empty 221b Baker Street flat. Mrs. Hudson informed him that Sherlock Holmes was out on business, but that he was expected back soon, if he wanted to wait. Watson accepted graciously and went straight to the sitting room, where, five minutes later, Mrs. Hudson entered.

"I'm terribly sorry, Dr., but there's a young lady here demanding to see Mr. Holmes, and seeing as how you're here, I thought maybe perhaps you could talk to her until he arrives. She absolutely refuses to leave," she explained rather apologetically.

"Oh, no, it's quite all right, Mrs. Hudson," Watson replied warmly, smiling. "Send her in."

Mrs. Hudson nodded and left to retrieve the woman. Moments later, she arrived, and if Watson had expected anything of this young lady, it was the complete opposite of what he saw before him.

She was a slender, prim, and unusually small lady with fine, silk-like blond hair and vibrant, intelligent looking green eyes. She had on her face a seemingly constant look of ascendancy, and stood in a manner which could not be called rigid, but which was also not lacking in posture. Upon seeing Watson, she entered smoothly, and allowed him no chance to speak before she began.

"I have very little time to waste, and as this is a matter of the utmost importance that must be dealt with immediately, I must speak with Mr. Holmes as soon as possible. I assume you are his friend, Dr. Watson?" she asked, looking directly at him for the first time, inquisitively.

"Yes, indeed," Watson answered, a little bewildered. He may have asked her what her trouble was, had she not proceeded to tell him without prompting.

"Well, I have other business today, but as you are a man to be trusted, I shall state my case to you and ask you to stress to Mr. Holmes the importance that I need to speak with him as soon as he is able. My name is Camilla Belzaire, and though I fancy there are few in London who have not heard of me, I am the recently divorced wife of Theodore Carlyle. Before that event, however, I may have been known for my work on women's rights around London, and that is the reason I divorced my husband; I discovered he did not share the same opinions as me, and while in some cases different views do not affect marriage, this one altered it drastically. Ever since the divorce, I have noted, several times, that one or two men have occasionally been shadowing me across London.

"I do not mean to implicate anyone in saying this, but I do find it a very odd coincidence that I first noticed these men right after my divorce. I'm afraid it isn't possible that they have been following me longer than that; it would have been quite impossible for me not to have noticed them. So far, neither of these men have attempted even the slightest communication with me, but they are learning my routines with frightening accuracy. So you see, as I have not even the slightest indication of their intentions or plans, it is quite imperative that I speak to Mr. Holmes."

This speech was delivered in such a stark, businesslike manner, that Watson could not believe she was being truthful; how could she have such an uncanny ability to speak so dispassionately about such a problem? He might have replied, but for Lady Belzaire interrupting once again.

"Well, that is, I'm afraid, all the time I have to speak with you. It took a great deal of trouble to throw those men off my trail, and by now they'll have suspected my coming here, so I must depart before they see me here. Remember to tell Mr. Holmes, and notify him that if he wishes to take my case, he may see firsthand the men following me tonight; I shall be attending a party on 74 Connaught Street," she said, and without a word, she briskly left, leaving a _very_ speechless Watson.

She was a remarkable woman. Her aura bore such a sense of authority and control that Watson had a very difficult time trying to speak to her. And she showed nearly no signs of weakness usually found in the contemporary London woman.

Why, she almost reminded him of Irene Adler.


End file.
